“I promised sweet Georgiana that I would see to this on her behalf,” she said with finality.
When Sally finally gave herself over to Lady Millhouse, it was with a shrug of weariness.
Lord Millhouse was a peaceable man. His part was to stay behind, happy that he sent off intercessory letters warning one and all of his wife’s approach. Lady Millhouse seemed quite pleased with her husband’s assistance. As Sally did not have the two and twenty years practise in being thwarted in attempting to dissuade Lady Millhouse from her various missions, she did not comprehend why he was so handily overruled when he insisted that they be accompanied by footmen.
Sally fully understood that her ladyship did not enjoy calm pursuits. Still, when she saw they were meant to take to the road in a two-wheeled gig, the girl was well nigh giddy with excitement. Suddenly their mission seemed less a mission than a lark. Her humour was well in place when they were set to scramble into the daring equipage.
Lady Millhouse looked to advantage when in the saddle, but she was a large-boned woman and whilst on her feet, she moved with all the subtlety of a barge. Climbing onto the gig was less a matter of being handed into the seat, but rather lifted. Sally clambered up beside her whilst Lady Millhouse took hold of the reins. With a flick of the good lady’s wrists they embarked upon their little jaunt.
Lady Millhouse drove the gig with the same eagerness she took a fence—but not with equal finesse. (As she was thickset and Sally was small, the gig began the trip disadvantaged by a droop to one side.) Lady Millhouse straightened her bonnet and, bound by a long-held affection and keen understanding of the other’s nature, the Millhouses bid each other adieu. Lord Millhouse did not abandon his farewell until the huge feather in Lady Millhouse’s headdress had disappeared over the horizon. Not unlike a hunt, her ladyship did not hesitate. Every corner was taken too wide and too fast, with young Sally clinging for dear life.
Lord Millhouse saw nothing more of his wife and Miss Arbuthnot until they returned mid-afternoon.
Upon their arrival at Pennyswope’s doorstep, it was clear that something was amiss. Her ladyship’s hat was askew, Sally’s cap gone altogether. When they came to a halt, the girl leapt from the gig, which caused the springs to give her ladyship’s descent undue thrust. She landed on a footman, but another drew her to her feet.
Lord Millhouse greeted them just inside the door. Sally stopped before him, her eyes wide enough to suggest she had encountered something... untoward. His wife however did not look his way.
Rather, she dusted her hands and announced to everyone within hearing, “A new plan is now in place! To London we go!”
Chapter 63
Chastened
The Darcys’ journey, which had begun with equal parts apprehension and anticipation, ended not with a clash, but with a whimper.
As the morning dawned over Chiltern Inn, Mr. Darcy was still unaware of this.
Both he and Elizabeth lay naked as the sunlight crept up their legs, a bed-sheet their only modesty. Her hair cascaded across her cheek and he reached out with tender fingers to brush them aside lest he wake her. Nonetheless, her legs moved restlessly. He laid a sheltering arm across her shoulders and pressed against the provocative curve of her supine figure. The scent of her hair in his nostrils, his morning pride soon tautened into a priapism of admirable size.
His desire ever-thickening against her thigh, she responded. A sough escaped the back of her throat and he kissed her beneath her ear.
“Good-day, my love,” he whispered.
Abruptly, she sat upright. Just as hastily, she threw herself back on her pillow, the back of her hand across her eyes. She pointed to the drapes, hissing the plea, “The windows! My head! I cannot bear the light!”
With what could have been accused as a reluctance upon his part, he rose and thither he walked to yonder window to draw the blessed drapes. A vision of masculine beauty burdened by concupiscence was ever lost to her—as was the unhappy expression that overspread his countenance upon his return.
“Oooh,” she moaned.
He could not remain unsympathetic, despite the fact that her headache was one of self-infliction.
As he drew on his breeches and shirt, he curled his fist and hit the wall several times with the side of it, demanding, “Cold water for Mrs. Darcy.”
She half-sat, raising the palm of her hand in his direction, “Desist! I implore you, desist!”
As he hastily finished buttoning his breeches, an impish smile attached itself to the corner of his mouth.
He told her, “You, my dearest love, are crapulous.”
Narrowing her eyes, she peered at him cautiously, saying, “I am quite certain I am no such thing.” She insisted (as much to herself as to her husband), “I have taken sick quite coincidental to... whatever came to pass....”
He queried, “Is your tongue dry?”
“A bit,” she admitted.
He would have said more, however she had made a sudden move. Covering her mouth with one hand, she made for the large bowl sitting on the side table. She leaned over it just in time to empty what was left in her stomach.
He reminded her, “As I said, ‘crapulous.’”
Upon her second heave, he took pity and sat down next to her. Holding her hair back from her face, he kissed her on top of her head.
“My, poor Lizzy,” he cooed.
Before she could respond, another wave of nausea attacked her. Hannah rapped upon the door. Elizabeth cringed at the sound. Taking hold of his coat, he opened the door for the maid. She was carrying a pitcher of water.
“Mistress has partaken of something disagreeable,” he lied.
If Elizabeth was grateful, she did not tell him then.
In an hour, he returned to look in on her. The drapes were closed. A folded cloth lay across her eyes. Before he could close the door, she cast her compress aside and sat upright.
He believed that it was not the time to exchange observations or make amends (most particularly when the transgressions were so nebulous). His wife was of another mind. Patting the bed next to her, she bid him come. He rarely refused her, but rather than sit, he walked to the window and peered out. A slice of sunlight pierced the room. He hastily closed the drape and stood before her. He rested his weight on one foot and folded his hands behind him. Recognising his oft-used posture of defence, she closed her eyes as if to rebuff it.
“I beg to apologise....”
“Please. It is nothing. You are unused to spirits...,” he interrupted.
She held up her hand.
“Do not,” she reproved.
His mask of reserve slipped. He nodded his regret (for whatever injury she believed him to have committed).
She said, “It is said that ‘the wicked flee when no man pursueth’.”
He nodded again, but had no notion what she meant.
She endeavoured to explain, “I fled to the inn for there was no park.”
Upon this remark, he did not nod. Her meaning was lost to him and he awaited enlightenment.
“Had we been at Pemberley, I should have taken a lovely walk. The brisk air might have spared me the mortification of ‘crapulousness’.”
Having taken her meaning at last, he took a step towards her and rested a hand upon the bedpost. She did not notice that, for she was quite intent on what she must explain to him.
“When I spied you becalming our son’s fears, though it was not your intention to lay blame, I saw it as an accusation against me, as a mother. However, I was at fault. As his mother, I alone am responsible.”
He was lost again—for a moment only. Then, as if the heavens opened, he understood. Geoff was not only of whom she spoke.
“Therein lays the problem,” said he. “We speak not of fault, for no one is truly to blame. There is but one question. Are you able to forgive yourself for a transgression that does not exist?”
She turned her eyes to him, but was silent.
He took her hand, asking quietly, �
�Do you have trust in me?”
“Above all others.”
“Trust me in this.”
Laying her cheek against her his hand, she sighed. For so long a time he had felt as if she were slipping away from him, he chose to take that as a good omen.
Chapter 64
Home and other Disasters
As they rode through Derbyshire and towards home, the hair upon the back of Darcy’s neck prickled at what he might find. He feared the brief time he was away that the doors to the hen houses had been left open and that all the foxes were stealing inside.
Therefore, directly upon their return from Chiltern, Mr. Darcy took to the saddle.
It was not unusual for him to do so. Never the sort to leave his vast holdings solely to various overseers, Darcy’s time in restive London only strengthened this resolve in that. Shepherding Pemberley and those people who relied upon his land for their livelihood was a duty he held second only to his family. In the past, he and Elizabeth would take to their horses together. However, the fine weather did not influence him to suggest she accompany him just then.
His decision was twofold.
If his wife were to go with him, it would necessitate them engaging in a conversation about the last time that they had been on horseback together (an occasion fraught with disquietude and in déshabillé). Additionally, and more importantly, he feared for her safety. Every protective instinct told him that she must stay within Pemberley and he must get on his horse and survey the lay of the land.
Even on its best days, Pemberley was not without quandaries and disputes. Commonly, these were no more than any other estate through time immemorial. With the country on the brink of anarchy, his rounds were more significant and risky.
Ere he travelled to London, there had been breathy accusations (both high and low) of spies invading the countryside. That was not talk of superstitious bumpkins. Those who kept reasonably abreast of the affairs of Derbyshire knew it was true. The Home Secretary had sent a network of informants into all areas of discontent. Once there, they were to report any hint of political rebellion to the local authorities. Regrettably, these spies were only paid when they had something to recount. That which they could not find, was invented.
No farther than Pentrich, a report had been made to local militia that an armed uprising was to occur. The men involved claimed that they were misled; that an agent provocateur had a hand in both the report and any insurrection. Disagreement over the truth of the matter was ongoing. Whatever occurred, what was not in dispute was that six men were hung.
Sorting the political chaff from the factual grain was gaining ever-greater importance. Mr. Rhymes had to take far greater care in all matters of hiring. An otherwise amiable-looking worker might be a true invader of agitation. So far as he had heard, no men of that ilk had been uncovered. That news offered him little comfort. If they were not in their midst, in due course, they would arrive. The surrounding mines invited it.
While wolves passed for men of honour, there were lambs to birth and crops to sow. Political upheaval or not, Pemberley had to forge ahead.
With most of the ruling class in bowel-restricting fear of revolution, Mr. Darcy believed it was his to calm those who laboured on his behalf. Change was afoot. The likelihood that those alterations would suit Mr. Darcy’s leanings was remote. He understood that quite well. Nonetheless, he understood the grander design; change was the only constant. The tide would come, one wave at a time.
Leaving Pemberley house that day, he had made an ever-greater circle of his land until he was satisfied that he had done all that he could to see that it was as it should be. Therewith, he turned Blackjack towards home. When he did, his purpose was clear. His most present apprehension had little to do with politics. Indeed, his land was not all that needed cosseting.
The hours he spent solely superintending his vast estate meant that he had ridden out as the cock crows and returned at dusk. During his investigations, it had not been difficult to set aside those conversations with Elizabeth which had been so painful for them both. For the better part of a week, they had done little more than exchange a brief kiss. He knew that he had spent far too much time away from his wife and he meant to repair that injurious wrong.
Riding out again the next day at dawn, he vowed a homecoming by mid-afternoon. Elizabeth would expect him, for he left her a note advising her of his early return. He came not by the road, but a more direct route. And as he rode, he prepared himself not merely to take his wife into his impassioned arms, but first to unkennel certain botherations wholly unconnected with their marriage. One could not patch a ship’s sails without seeing to the barnacles clinging to its hull.
A niggling doubt about that presumption began to trouble him. Indeed, a vertical line appeared between his brows announcing that Mr. Darcy believed that whilst in London, he may well have erred.
———
When last in town, he had spoken to his solicitor, carried out a particular errand, and paid a visit to the Bingleys. Other than Charles Bingley’s gout-ridden toe (and Jane’s distress because of it), nothing untoward came to pass. Upon his return to his townhouse, he handed his horse’s reins over to a footman and walked briskly through the garden to the postern steps. Before he reached them, a lady came out of the dark. The moonlight cast a milky glow across her skin.
Initially, he could not see her eyes for they were cast down. It had been unnecessary to gaze upon her countenance, for he had recognised her voice.
“Mon Cheri,” she had said.
To have Lady Howgrave step out of the shadows greatly astonished him. Much to his chagrin, his surprise was apparent. Attempting to conquer his expression, he took several deliberate steps in her direction before he spoke. His words were not of a man fully in charge of his thoughts.
“Why, pray tell, why...? Where did you...? You cannot be unaccompanied?”
The last question was one of a consummate gentleman. Upon hearing it, Juliette emitted a soft laugh. In the dark, her eyes glistened like diced plums.
What to do with her posed a problem for him. No good would come from anyone seeing her there... with him. The choices were few. He could escort her into the house or he might speak to her in the privacy of the stables. What he would not do was turn her away in the dark. No gentleman would. The streets were unsafe for men.
Indeed, he did not turn her away.
He took her elbow, leaned next to her ear and said, “Where is your carriage?”
It was obvious that she had not come on foot.
Glancing towards the alleyway, she said simply, “There.”
Indeed, an inconspicuous landaulet was in the mews just beyond the stables. He steered her through the garden and to the lane dividing his house from the one behind. As if a virginal maid, she trotted along beside him. Her coachman stood by the head of the horse, his hat low, slapping the reins across his palm. Darcy opened the door for her and held her hand as she ascended the steps. She settled herself inside and looked at him in query.
Grabbing the handgrip, he drew himself in beside her and closed the door behind them.
Chapter 65
Reinvention
Once he was on his feet, Wickham set his considerable imagination upon obtaining a new identity.
Even with Mrs. Younge’s help (as a long-time inhabitant of the narrow alleys between lawful and criminal enterprises, Mrs. Younge knew to keep his continued presence in her house a secret), he had been surprised that the army had not winkled out where he was. That piece of vellum those two wee wenches forced him to sign meant nothing that he could see. To them, it was just some farce. He had read it under considerable duress.
It took him a while to work it all out.
First, he had to determine his legal situation. Persuading Mrs. Younge to sally forth to King’s Bench on his behalf was the work of a half hour. Once there, she had only to pass a remarkably paltry bribe to learn that several affidavits had been filed regarding Major George Wickham. O
ne attested that he had deserted his post and murdered a private under his command whilst he made his away. The second one was signed by two witnesses who claimed to have seen Major Wickham killed and that his body had been interred in a mass grave. No other details were cited on either count.
After receiving the news that he was a known murderer and deserter, Wickham only laughed. Mrs. Younge was taken aback.
“Did you do murder, George?”
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